


Her Red Lipstick

by clockworkpunk



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Pedophilia, Sexual Assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-25 08:09:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18257258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkpunk/pseuds/clockworkpunk
Summary: Five is trying not to think about it, but he can feel hands that aren't there.





	Her Red Lipstick

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in self reflection, and as a sort of milestone; to prove to myself that I could, and to mark that I'm okay now (about this at least). It's based on my experience of being sexually assaulted aged thirteen, yours may differ. Please read with caution, this might trigger you in some way. The main trigger warnings are in the tags: pedophilia and sexual assault. Neither are detailed but please be careful.

Five didn’t know why she did it. It could be any number of reasons. Maybe she enjoyed knowing how uncomfortable she could make him. Maybe she got off on it. Maybe she just wanted to make sure he wouldn’t speak against her.

 

He shuddered at the thought, trying to banish the memory of her hands at his neck.

 

_“Aren’t you just darling in your little uniform?”_

 

No, no, no, _no_.

 

Desperate hands scrambled for a Delores that wasn’t there.

 

Cool, expertly done nails trailed along his face. Hands that weren’t his undid his tie.

 

He wasn’t thinking about this. He wasn’t thinking about her hands on his shoulders, down to his waist and the fact that nobody ever should touch him like that.

 

He stumbled into the bathroom, crashing into the sink violently. Wide eyes stared back at him out of the mirror, out of a face with lips that were still smeared with her red lipstick.

 

The water ran, splashing onto his fingers, dragged up to his lips as he scrubbed frantically. And the lipstick doesn’t come off. It doesn’t come off and suddenly there are tears blurring his vision and quite frankly why the fuck is he handling a fucking kiss worse than surviving forty two years in the apocalypse?

 

Even if it wasn’t really just a kiss because he can’t get the feeling of her hands off his stomach or her nails on his face and his mouth is still faintly pink and he hates this body, because even if he hadn’t frozen in place, he couldn’t overpower her. 

 

Because he’s _weak._

 

His hands shake and he clutches the sink until his knuckles turn white to stop them, staring at one tile because he can’t look at himself and he knows if he closes his eyes it will all come rushing back like some kind of horrific fever dream.

 

And doesn’t he wish it was just some fucked up dream.

 

Distantly he can hear his siblings beginning to clatter about along the hallways, knowing he doesn’t have much solitude left. So he moves mechanically, scrubbing his face and drying it roughly to cover the redness left over from the crying, curling his fingers into fists so he doesn’t have to worry about them shaking.

 

He paints an arrogant smirk on his face and steps out.

 

Even if the pink stains from her red lipstick aren’t completely gone.

**Author's Note:**

> So there you go. For anyone currently going through this: I hope you are okay now, and I promise you that you will be. It might take time, but one day someone will touch you and it will be okay. One day you'll realise that, actually, you are okay. One day you'll have your last panic attack over it. One day you'll flashback for the last time. Those are gonna be happy days. Make sure you're around for them.


End file.
